Are showing. I am not afraid
of gray
days and midnight blue
evenings—the Atlantic
a skipping stone’s
throw away
at all times. Barnacles
hosted in the seams
of everything. Four distinct
seasons, each with its own
drama—highs and lows.
Connecticut and Massachusetts
call me home at the least
expected moments. I don’t
always answer—but can’t
camouflage my soul’s saturation for long.
A mural on a sound
barrier wall won’t disturb
the peace. A movie
flashing on an ice rink dasher
board will not melt. But
air measuring
14 below zero Fahrenheit
with 35 below wind chill will
make your eyes sting. And who will shed
Dutch tears?
Will not
talk about it–
no circumpolar whirl
wind shear doldrums super storm fog–
just air.
You are not in
her dream—merely fragments left
behind to prove
you were here. A small sketchbook,
a pair of socks, one
thick glove, a trace
of your carefully constructed
thought. She handles
the sketchbook but
finds an old-fashioned band
flyer with a letter scrawled
on the back
more appealing. Scans
the words—sees her name
near the bottom of the page. Slanted
forward. You know what
they say about that. And then
she wakes up. No idea
what the letter said
about her or who
it was addressed to. It’s 20 below,
and the cat’s licking bedroom
window blinds again.
for Sheri
Gone. Did the New York Subway #1
train pickpocket keep
them? I shouldn’t have kept them
all in my wallet. I wanted
some—any—scrap left
of you with me
at all times. You had been
gone only a little
over a year. I should have paced
myself. I was too young
and naïve to understand the infinite
nature of your absence. You understood
limits and functions
so much better
than I ever could. And
the symbol
for infinity could be
a pattern we used to scrape out
with our skates
on the Thornton Park Ice Rink.
Three years
and keep counting
up then down to return
to a time I still feared lighting
a match.
She’ll tell you
she doesn’t need
room. Let it spill
over. And she won’t be
lying. Desire
fills a different vessel
now—it comes
with wings.
Flashing
red and white light
above wild clay cliffs
will fade to memory without
rescue.
A week across
the border—no
turning back and
all other clichés
come true
beneath a mistletoe
she doesn’t
stand beneath. Her kisses
are not
parasites. Her infatuation
gets nourished
from within.
He sees
structure in her
she might destroy again
without his voice’s midnight calm
to soothe.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 